I am a Doctor, not a
by Jenz127
Summary: Am jumping on the bandwagon here...The multi-talented Watson always seems so much more than just a Doctor...
1. Archivist

**Hi guys - Hope you don't mind if I join in the 'I'm a Doctor not a…' challenge. Brilliant idea, by the way.**

**Disclaimer - I do not own Holmes or Watson.**

**Archivist**

Peace. At last. It seemed like a week since I had sat down with glass of whisky and a good book and was able to rest in peace. Holmes and I had spent the last few days chasing a criminal around the country, from Edinburgh to Plymouth, and just about every town and city in between. Finally, we had caught him, and had made our way back to Baker Street, and I at least was exhausted. Holmes of course, did not seem overly affected by the events pertaining to this last case, and I could tell that he was getting bored at the lack of activity. I had decided to have an early night, with my book and my drink, and was upstairs, in my room.

"Watson." My friend's dulcet tones pierced the peaceful silence, as he called up the stairs and I sighed, trying to concentrate on my book and ignore him.

"Watson!" The voice was louder this time. Again, I decided to ignore him, hoping that the 'greatest deductive mind in the world' would get the not-so-subtle hint.

"**Watson!**" I grimaced and looked up. Letting out a frustrated sigh, I closed my book and made my way downstairs, opening the lounge door. Holmes was looking at me in irritation. Whilst I had been upstairs, drifting into the world of my book, he had managed to turn the lounge into what can only be described as the scene of a small-scale, but very potent, riot. The lounge was masked under a carpet of white paper, books were scattered around the room, pages falling out where he had thrown them with force, and I could barely see any of the furniture.

"Holmes."

"I have lost it, Watson."

"That does not surprise me." I said, dryly. "What are you looking for?"

"The case-notes for the case you so floridly titled 'The Hound of the Baskervilles'."

I nodded, made my way across the lounge, opened a drawer and looked inside. The case-notes for that 'floridly titled' case were the first I laid my hands on. "Is this what you are looking for?" I asked, tiredly.

"Oh, yes. Mycroft wanted them…I shall take them to his flat now…" In a burst of energy, he picked up his Inverness and his hat, and made his way to the lounge door.

Quickly, I went after him, catching his wrist as he was about to exit the room. "And what about this mess?" I asked "I hate to think what Mrs Hudson will say when she sees it…you know how she hates a mess."

Holmes looked at me, pleadingly, an expression which, once upon a time, would have made me nod obediently and get on with the tidying up. But no more. "Oh no, Holmes." I said, "I am a Doctor, not an Archivist. Clear it up yourself." Holmes opened his mouth and looked at me in some surprise as I made my way up the stairs to my room. Grinning, I leaned over the banisters "Just so you know, old chap, Mrs Hudson will be back within the hour."

Holmes looked at me, took off his Inverness and threw it to the ground, followed by his hat. He then retreated to the lounge, slamming the door. I smiled to myself, and went on up the stairs. Not much could frighten Sherlock Holmes, but a confrontation with an angry Scottish housekeeper came very close.


	2. Nanny

**I love this challenge - it's strangely addictive!**

**Disclaimer - I do not own Holmes or Watson…**

**Nanny**

It had been a strange case from the very beginning. Firstly, we had come home from the opera one night to find a note from a lady that was so smudged that it was illegible. Then, five days later, the lady had appeared - a woman with white hair, and hazel eyes. Unfortunately, we had not got one word out of her due to the fact that as soon as she had seen Holmes in his black suit, leaning against the mantel, she had shocked us both by screaming loudly and running out of the room. We had chased her, and found her address. We followed her, had got involved in a case concerning her employer, Lord Beresford, and had been convinced of his utter despicability. After being imprisoned in his house, and witnessing the murder of his wife, we had escaped. But not alone…

"What _are_ we meant to do with it?" asked Holmes, as we both stood, staring into his bedroom. Inside a two-year old toddler, with golden-blond curly hair was sitting on his bed, playing with his magnifying glass.

"It's not an _it_, Holmes. It's a child."

"What kind do you think it is?" I stared at him for a moment, and then shook my head disbelievingly.

"They are not like dogs, Holmes. They do not come in kinds. It is either a boy or a girl. I think boy."

"Do we need to feed it?" I stared at Holmes. Honestly, you would think he was discussing a pet cat, rather than a child.

"I think that would be a good idea."

Holmes stood, looking at the little child for a minute. "So, erm…Doctor…"

"What, Holmes?"

"Well, you are used to children…"

"No."

"Watson…"

"This was your case, Holmes…you…Oh heavens…!"

The child had run forward, and was pulling at the cloth placed on Holmes' chemistry table. As he pulled, the chemicals were brought closer and closer to the edge. I bent down, and grabbed the child out of the way. The child laughed, obviously perceiving this as a great game, and tugged, hard at my moustache. "Ow!" I cried.

At exactly the same moment, Holmes let out a string of curses "That _thing_ has broken my favourite magnifying glass!"

"Well, you should not have given him it to play with."

Holmes glowered at me, and then at the child, who decided at that moment to reach out and pull Holmes' hair, hard.

"That is the last straw!" said Holmes. "I am going straight to that child's aunt and getting her. He cannot stay here."

"And you are going to leave me with him? Blast it all, Holmes, I'm a Doctor, not a Nanny!"

Holmes grinned. "I will be back in a couple of hours." Before I could stop him, he ran out, down the stairs and had slammed the front door.

Growling, I surveyed the child and the child surveyed me. Then I had an idea, as the child's clumsy hands reached up for my moustache. "Come on, my boy…how would you like to learn to play the violin?"


	3. Jockey

**Disclaimer - I do not own Holmes, Watson, Mrs Watson or Lestrade.**

**Jockey**

"Watson."

"No."

"Watson…"

"I am not doing it, Holmes."

"But the case…"

"I do not care about the case, Holmes. I am not doing it."

"Watson. This is important."

"You want me to pretend to be a horse trainer to get a look at Rochton's stables?"

"That was the general idea, yes."

"And pray tell why you cannot do it."

"Because I am too tall."

"And as you frequently remind me, I am too stout."

"It is one day, Watson."

"Can I remind you what happened the last time you put me on a horse?"

"Well…"

"I fell off…and landed in a patch of nettles, before slipping down a bank into a river…"

"I am sure you have got better since that unfortunate occurrence…"

"Unfortunate occurrence? I could not sit down for a week! And all you did was sit and watch and laugh your head off. Well, I am not doing it. I am a Doctor, not a jockey!"

**Five Hours later…**

"I really am very sorry, Watson."

"A broken arm, Holmes! And a hoof-mark the size of a small country on my chest…what on earth is Mary going to say?"

"I was not to know that that particular horse did not like men with moustaches."

"Next time, Holmes, you can find someone else to do your espionage for you."

"I wonder if Lestrade is free…?"


	4. Sherlock Holmes

**Hey! Thought I'd change the meme slightly (only slightly mind!)**

**Disclaimer - I do not own Holmes, Watson or Mary Watson.**

**Sherlock Holmes**

23rd May 1890

It was a pleasant May afternoon, the weather not too warm or cool, and I was sitting in my consulting room, reading through my correspondence for that day. It was the time of year when business was set at a comfortable pace, it being too hot for colds and influenza, and too cold for heat-stroke and hay fever. There was a lull in the day's patients and I sat, with a hot cup of tea and relaxed.

There was a knock at the door, and I straightened in my chair, believing the caller to be my next patient. "Come in…" I called. I was surprised and inordinately pleased to see that my caller was my wife, Mary, with a refreshed tea-pot and another cup for herself.

"You are not busy?" she asked, cautiously.

I grinned, and stood, going to retrieve the pot of tea from her and setting it on the table. I then pulled her into my arms, and kissed her. "I am never too busy to see you, my dear."

Mary smiled back at me "I see that you have not received a summons from Mr Holmes for some days."

"Mr Holmes is in Paris, on some case or other."

"He did not ask you?"

"I think he wanted to do it alone."

Mary nodded, grinned and changed the subject "I have lost that beautiful silk scarf that Mrs. Forrester gave me as a leaving present before our marriage."

"Where did you last have it?"

"Do you know, I cannot remember. What do you think John…" her eyes lit up, teasingly "Do you think that it has been stolen by a secret gang bent on controlling the world of crime? Or a man with a secret vendetta against us? Or one of your love-struck female patients? What do you think?"

I laughed at her teasing of some of my more dramatic cases with Holmes, and smiled at her, all the time my love and adoration of her growing. "You forget my dear, I am a Doctor, not Sherlock Holmes."

Mary's face became more serious, and she kissed me fervently "I never forget it, and I thank God for it everyday."


	5. Miracle Worker

**This is inspired by a couple of the scenes from the Granada series of Sherlock Holmes, and by a scene from my fan fiction 'A Singular Woman'.**

**Disclaimer - I do not own Holmes or Watson.**

**Miracle-Worker**

As has happened many times when I have been on a case with my friend Mr Sherlock Holmes, I was awoken from sleep at around half-past two, by a sharp prodding in my ribs. As I was just coming back to the land of the living, I felt myself being hoisted to my feet, and a voice, that unmistakable voice of my friend shouting at me "Come, Watson. The chase begins!" Bleary-eyed and still a little confused as to where I was, I followed Holmes in a limping half-run across the lawn.

As I ran, I remembered what we were doing here. Holmes and I had come down to Southampton on a case regarding a young man who was said to have stolen away the unwitting daughter of a local merchant, who he had wanted to marry. For the past five hours, we had been waiting in the undergrowth outside of the gates of his house, Holmes being sure that this was the night that the man would fly with the girl to the continent. Holmes had come to see me at six o'clock that evening in my consulting rooms, excited and very obviously sleep and food deprived. I too, had been tired, having had a constant stream of patients from the very beginning of the day, but seeing the state Holmes was in had decided to go with him.

I had been not a little confused at the transportation that Holmes had secured for us at Southampton Station, but had decided not to press the matter, and 'follow the master'. We had made our way to Birkenridge House, the place of residence of the young man, and had set up watch.

When the young man's carriage emerged through the gates of his house, carrying not only he, but also a girl that I could see was either asleep or chloroformed, Holmes and I had 'run' across to our method of transportation. I cannot say that I was optimistic.

"Come, Watson!" Holmes said again "We must catch him!"

I looked at him sarcastically. "_Yes_ Holmes."

Holmes jumped upon his bicycle, and pedalled off, followed quickly by myself, my poor leg smarting as we tried to keep up with the carriage.

"Come on, Watson!" Holmes yelled from ahead of us.

I shook my head, bent low over the handlebars and pedalled for all I was worth. The carriage pulled further and further away, until it was a dot at the top of the hill. Holmes, frustrated, let out a loud cry of anger, and stopped the bike. Turning to me, he yelled "If it were not for you, Watson…"

Rather annoyed, I stopped and shouted back "Well, it is not my fault, Holmes. How about I shoot you in the leg one day, and we will see how you feel about pedalling a blasted bicycle. You could have got better transport! Horses, perhaps? Even donkeys would have been better then these stupid things!"

"We needed to catch him…!"

"For heaven's sake, Holmes! I am a doctor, not a miracle-worker. I can do a lot of things, but I cannot make these bicycles fly!"


	6. Sailor

**Get ready to feel sorry for poor Watson…**

**Disclaimer - Holmes and Watson are not mine.**

**Sailor**

I sat on the deck of the good ship 'Mariskia' feeling utterly sorry for myself. I had suffered from sea-sickness from when I was a little child, and even now, in my twenty-eighth year, setting foot on a ship in weather that was even a little stormy had a startling effect on my stomach. My insides felt like they had been turned upside-down and inside-out, I felt weak and empty, after losing any sustenance I had eaten over the last twenty-four hours into the sea which swirled around the bottom of the ship.

I groaned, trying to steady myself and overcome the disorientation I felt. I looked up as a shadow fell across my face. Holmes stood there, in absolute perfect health, with a smile upon his face. "How are you feeling, Watson?"

"How do you think I am feeling?" I asked crossly, cursing the dratted man's steady stomach.

"Well, you look absolutely awful."

"Thank you for your concern, Holmes."

Holmes let out a short bark of laughter "Oh, my dear friend, why did you not tell me? I would have not insisted on your coming."

"You were in danger," I grimaced "Oh Lord, and now I am. I think I am dying, Holmes."

"Trust a Doctor to be a hypochondriac." I bridled at Holmes' comment. This was, after all, his fault. Holmes had been brought news of an illegal smuggling ring on board this ship and it's sister ship, the 'Alaki'. Holmes had suggested that we sign up as sailors, and I take on the responsibilities of ship's Doctor, an idea that I was not altogether happy with. But after we were attacked by a group of very large sailors in an alley near a theatre, I realised that Holmes needed all the help he could get, and determined to join him. I now wished I had stayed at home.

"Blast it all, Holmes! I am a Doctor, not a sailor."

Holmes smiled again "It is providence indeed that the Captain was not present when you decided to become ill all over that poor sailor, Watson, or our cover would have been blown."

I scowled at him and struggled to my feet "There are some times when I really detest you, Holmes."

Holmes grinned at me, and I started to walk away. I was half-way across the deck, when one of the cabin boys stuck his head out of a door. He was pale, and his breathing was erratic. "Doctor!" he yelled "The cook is dead."

In that instant, I forgot my sea-sickness and made my way down to the kitchen, followed quickly by Holmes. We went inside to be greeted by a terribly unpleasant sight. The place smelled of blood and gore, reminding me inescapably of Afghanistan. The walls were covered in blood. The body was…I shall refrain from describing it, but instead say that the body was decapitated and it was a particularly violent assault. My instincts as a Doctor taking over, as well as my experiences on the battlefield, I began to…piece together…the body.

My attention was gained by the sound of a gasp, I looked up to see Holmes running out of the room. I nodded to the cabin boy and followed my friend, thinking that he had got a lead. Instead, he ran out onto the deck, having turned a very delicate shade of green, groaned, then leant over the side of the boat and promptly lost his breakfast.

My first instinct was to laugh - but he looked so pathetic standing there. I felt much better - better enough to show sympathy to Holmes even after he had shown me none. I walked over to him as he still leant over the side, and placed a supporting hand on his back. "Poor old fellow," I said, gently, "But perhaps now you see…"

"Oh heavens, Watson. I am so sorry…"

I smiled "Quite alright, Holmes. But maybe now you will remember in future that you are a detective, not a sailor."

My answer was a groan from Holmes as he brought up more of his breakfast, followed by a cry from behind us. "I say…" said the Captain menacingly "What kind of sailors get sea-sick?"


	7. Gymnast

**Disclaimer - I do not own Holmes or Watson**

**Gymnast**

We ran across the rooftops - Holmes first, me a couple of metres behind. The heat of the blaze pricked at my back, and although I did not turn, I felt the fingers of fire licking ever closer to us.

The pain in my thigh blazed, and I fell further behind, limping slower and slower after my friend. Holmes turned and looked back at me. I motioned for him to keep going - to get out! - but he took no notice, running back to put one arm around my shoulders. I leaned heavily on him, feeling guilty, but at the same time relieved, as I proceeded to take the weight off my leg. "You should go on, Holmes," I muttered.

Holmes looked down sharply at me, before shaking his head "Do not talk nonsense. Of course I am not going to leave you."

We carried on, me being half-carried, and made up some distance on the flames. The rooftops we were running over were flat, luckily for my leg. But soon came an obstacle. In order to cross between two parts of the roof of the house, separated by a courtyard, we had three options - taking the long route around and probably perishing in the fire, jumping from the rooftop to the courtyard below, there being more than half a chance that we would be killed by the impact, or the quick way across - a beam, no more than twenty centimetres wide, stretching over the twelve metre expanse of courtyard and sharp, hard cobbles.

Holmes looked at me and I stared at him "What do we do?" I asked. It looked almost impossible. Even without a useless leg, I am broader and more muscular than Holmes, and would, almost certainly overbalance. Holmes cast a glance around the rooftop, looking for another way. But there was none.

"It seems," he said "That the beam is our only hope."

"But - but that's not possible…for heaven's sake, Holmes! I am a Doctor, not a gymnast."

"I will help you…"

"No! If I must do it, I will do it alone. I will not fall and take you with me." I spoke the words with such vehemence that Holmes looked surprised and not a little touched.

He nodded "Very well. But I will go across first - show you where to step."

"Very well."

Holmes took a deep breath, and walked across carefully, seeming completely composed. He was as balanced as a cat, and went across quickly, before motioning to me to follow.

I nodded, tried to calm myself, and started across the beam. My hands shook terribly, and I felt sweat running down my face. My leg was in agony, as every other step I had to put my full weight on it. I looked down once, and had to stop, fear freezing me. My back, however, was getting hot. The flames edged closer.

I was roused by Holmes' voice, stern, steady - "Watson! Watson, look at me!" I acquiesced "Watson, you have to keep going. Keep your eyes on me. You are almost there."

Keeping my eyes locked with his, I continued, until I was about three metres from the edge. Holmes flung out his hand to me, and I came closer to it, ready to grab on and hold it with all my might, until I was safe. I was looking so intently at Holmes, I did not see the bump in the wooden beam. Unexpectedly, it jarred my bad leg. I yelled out in pain, and tripped, falling forwards and banging my head and feeling myself start to slip off the beam. Then everything went black.

Looking back in hindsight, I realise that I was aware subconsciously of what was going on. I felt Holmes' hands tighten around my wrist, felt him pull me up onto the beam with strength I did not know that he possessed and felt him pull me towards _terra firma_. I was aware of him flinging me over his shoulder - again, where did that strength come from? His stature, his figure, the lack of meat on his bones all belied it - and then carried me to a place of safety, before laying me down on the stony, gravelled ground.

He placed a handkerchief on my head wound, and began to shake me, hard, back into consciousness. "Watson…" he said, and I noticed a slight tremor to his voice "My dear fellow…please…wake up!" I opened my eyes, and saw Holmes bending over me, the hand clutching the handkerchief against my head wound, the other gripping my arm. "Oh heavens, Watson."

I groaned and shifted, trying to make myself comfortable. "Are you alright, Holmes?" I murmured, wanting to make sure he had not been injured in our flight.

Holmes' eyes glinted - were those tears? - and nodded "I am fine, old man. It is you we have to worry about."

"I -"

"Do not say you will be fine. We shall hail a cab and get you to hospital."

"No…Baker Street…"

"Do not be stubborn, Watson."

"Holmes…you were injured…made us take you home…"

Holmes sighed and nodded "Oh, very well." He helped me up and we wondered slowly down through the house of a very surprised Duchess, and Holmes got a cab. He helped me in, and tucked a blanket around my leg, his hand still on the handkerchief clutched to my wound.

I felt a little better and smiled dryly. "Next time we celebrate my birthday, Holmes, I do not care if Mrs Hudson is spring cleaning, we are having a cake and candles in Baker Street, not in one of your bolt-holes, especially not one which you use as a laboratory."


	8. Duchess

**I am kind of missing the Throckmortons, so I thought I would include a couple of them. If you do not know who they are, I would suggest reading my story 'The Adventure of Morton Manor'.**

**Disclaimer - Holmes and Watson do not belong to me. Meredith and Gregory do.**

**Duchess**

"How on earth did you talk me into this?"

"I am very persuasive."

"I know…"

Tottering across the ballroom, on high heels, I felt an utter fool. The black veil which covered my face - and most importantly my moustache - made it very difficult to see anything, let alone see the man we were meant to be tailing - a man with 'dubious' intentions towards our client. He had not even come though, but it had been impossible for us to leave, and now we were stuck here for as long as propriety demanded - I dressed as the fictional Duchess of Dovecot, whilst Holmes posed as my daughter, Anastasia. For anyone inquiring why we were dressed as women, it must be explained that as women, we were able to fit into this particular ball well - especially due to the fact that we were not entirely attractive women.

The ball was in honour of our client's sister's twenty-first birthday and there were perhaps ten men to over sixty women. If we had come as gentlemen, we would have not been able to do any work for the women trying to induce us to dance with them.

The ballroom was quite warm and I felt utterly awful. Holmes had procured us two unfeasibly ugly dresses, from heaven knows where, but mine was thick, and the veil was not helping. Holmes, who looked a little uncomfortable himself, murmured to me "Only about half an hour and it will be acceptable for us to leave."

I grimaced, and whispered "Heaven help you, Holmes, when we get out of here. I am a Doctor, not a Duchess."

We heard footsteps stop behind us and turned as a woman spoke "Duchess, I…"

Our eyes met with those of our friends, Meredith and Gregory Throckmorton, who we had met a few months before.

"Good Lord," said Gregory, who looked more than a little surprised.

"May I ask what you are doing?" Meredith's voice was a little hesitant, and I realised that she was trying to keep from laughing.

"It was his idea" I growled.

"I can well believe it."

Much to my amusement, Holmes coloured slightly. He liked Meredith, and it was not at all uncommon for the two to go to the opera or theatre together.

Both of the Throckmortons still looked a little dazed, but their bafflement seemed to be giving way to hilarity.

"What…? Why…?" Gregory stumbled over his words, turning crimson in the process.

Meredith was studying the dress Holmes was wearing "Is that not the dress that went missing from the laundry room at the school?" She turned her face to look at mine "…and this!" She really did look like she was going to burst out laughing now, but it is testament to her immeasurable self-control that she stopped herself "I ask again, what are you doing here?"

"We are on a case. A young lady - a Miss Esme Danvers - came to us this morning begging for our help," I said.

"It seems," said Holmes "That she is being paid attentions by a very dangerous man, a…"

"Mr Joseph Carter" finished Gregory.

"What?" I said, confused.

Meredith grinned "Esme and Mr Carter eloped this afternoon. It seems after she returned from town, she was somewhat ambushed by Carter and he…talked her round. I am surprised she did not send you a telegram…"

Holmes seemed dumbstruck. I was absolutely furious "Holmes!"

Holmes looked at me, then Meredith, then Gregory - the latter two were in spasms of laughter, tears pouring down their faces. "Stupid girl!" Holmes cried "I-I- Come, Watson. Let us go!"

Gratefully, I followed Holmes, not caring that we were being eyed curiously by everyone after this stupendous breach of etiquette. We hailed a four-wheeler and I got it, followed by Holmes.

Meredith came it look through the window "If you could engineer a way to get those dresses back to the school, I would be eternally grateful." Holmes nodded. I took off my veil and cast it aside.

Holmes looked at me, uncertainly. "I am sorry, Watson. But it is not my fault."

"We could have come as men!"

"You saw the way they treated Sir Gregory - gathering around him like carrion crows - we would have been eaten alive!"

Meredith laughed "What is your revenge to be, Doctor?"

I studied Holmes for a minute, and then smiled "I have one idea…"

"Pray tell…" Meredith said, conspiratorially.

"I shall write this story and sell it to the Strand. Of course, in the interests of modesty, I will not insert myself. I will call it the 'Adventure of the Birthday Ball'."

"It will be a best-seller" said Meredith seriously, her eyes sparkling. She turned to Holmes "I take it that you are not going to wear that dress to the opera next Saturday? You might be mistaken for a cast member."

Holmes glared at Meredith, but his eyes did soften a little, and a smile tugged at his lips, if only for a second. Then he cried out to the cab-driver our address. As we left Meredith, we heard her crying with laughter.


	9. Dentist

**Disclaimer - I do not own Holmes or Watson**

**Dentist**

"Ow." I looked up as Holmes grimaced, and put down the apple he had been biting in to.

"Alright?" I asked, a little concerned. But I was quite ready for Holmes' reply that he was absolutely fine, thank you. He never told me if he was ill or in pain until the very last moment. Usually, I had to fathom it out for myself.

Holmes started on his cup of coffee, and visibly winced. Putting that down, he moved on to a glass of water, and again had to bite his lip to stop himself from making an exclamation.

"You know," I said without looking up from my paper, "If you tell me what is ailing you, I might be able to help."

"No. I am fine, Watson."

He stood, and moved behind me. I surreptitiously moved a very well polished silver milk jug to watch Holmes' reflection. He took up his pipe, and tried to clamp it between his teeth, but could not do so.

"Toothache?" I asked, quietly.

Holmes' reflection turned to look at me "How did you…the milk jug?"

"Yes." I turned to face him "Well? Is it?"

Holmes started to blush a deep red, and I felt a rush of sympathy for him. This was a man who hated his own physical weaknesses who was unable to eat, smoke, drink and probably sleep. I stood, moved over to where he was standing and directed him to his armchair.

"How long have you had it?"

"About four days."

"Why on earth did you not tell me before?"

"I thought it would get better…" Holmes' tone was like that of a child, and I shook my head but continued with my questions, trying to keep my voice gentle.

"How much have you eaten in the last four days?"

Holmes looked at me with one eyebrow raised "Not much."

"And drunk?"

"A couple of glasses of water…"

"No wonder you have been so weak and lethargic of late! And slept?"

"I have not."

"In four days? My Lord, Holmes. You must feel terrible."

"It has not been pleasant."

"Well, you had best let me have a look." Holmes looked up at me, embarrassed, and I placed a hand on his arm and used the tone I usually reserved for frightened children "Come, come, my dear fellow. It will be done in just a few moments." Holmes nodded and opened his mouth and I peered inside, moving his head into the light. "Alright," I said when I had done "Well, you have an infected tooth and gum. It looks…" I studied him "Like you have tried to remove the tooth yourself."

Holmes shrugged "I thought…"

"Holmes, I am a doctor for a reason. When I am here you do not need to self-medicate. This has gone beyond my skill to treat. You shall have to go to a Specialist."

"But…Watson…Can't you…"

"No," I said gently "I am a Doctor, not a Dentist."

"If you will not treat me, I will go without," Holmes said, stubbornly. But if there is one thing I can beat Holmes in, it is tenacity.

"No, Holmes. You are going to the Dentist, and I am going with you. I know a very good man, who was at medical school with me. You will like him. He will be pleased to see you. I will go into the consulting room with you, and the Operating theatre if need be." Then, more gently, I said "I did not leave you on the way to The Falls. I will not leave you now for something as small as this."

Holmes smiled ruefully "You think I am being foolish."

"Yes. I do rather. I will get your coat. Five minutes, Holmes."

I went out, hailed a cab, and we left for the Dentist's consulting rooms. A few hours later, we returned, Holmes groggy from the heavy sedative and without one tooth. He was rather sore afterwards, and was unable to speak or play the violin. Liable to get bored, I spent my time entertaining and amusing him. I was extraordinarily gratified that the first intelligible words out of his mouth after a week were "Thank you, Watson."


	10. Love Interest

**Sorry I'm a bit late, KCS, but this is for you! I'm not quite sure what's going on, but I would just like to say thank you for reviewing my fics, and that you are a fantastic writer. **

**Just changing the meme a little bit…**

**Disclaimer - I do not own Holmes or Watson. **

**Love Interest**

"Well, that was interesting anyway…"

"Interesting?!" Holmes turned to me, his face livid as we (well he, actually) stormed through the lobby of the Lyceum theatre.

Some years ago, that look would have had me shrinking backwards in dismay, but now, twenty years after our first acquaintance, I had rather become used to steeling myself against them. "Well, at least there was a large audience…"

Holmes growled, and walked outside to get into one of the hansom cabs outside the theatre. I got in beside him, and he sat in a sulky silence for a moment, before exploding with; "A large audience. Wonderful! Now the whole of London will see me on stage mooning about after that Woman!" His voice reached a crescendo, and I sent an apologetic look to the cab driver, who looked rather annoyed that he seemed to have picked up a fare including a man quickly working himself into a raging fury.

"Holmes." I said, soothingly. "Come on. Calm down."

"And that is not the worst of it. Now I know!"

"You know? You know what?"

"Why…" he lowered his voice, and I saw in his eyes a semblance of utter fear. "I keep being followed."

"Followed?" I could not keep the concern out of my voice.

I was about to volunteer to leave my practice for a few days to act as bodyguard to him, when he whispered "By women…"

"Women?" my voice faltered at the look on his face. I coughed, trying to hide the laughter which I felt bubbling to the surface, and then could not hold it back anymore. I burst into gales of laughter, earning myself an elbow in the ribs, and a look that could quite possibly maim from Sherlock Holmes.

"Well, I am gratified, Watson, that you seem to think my plight amusing…"

"Oh, come on, Holmes. You do realise that every gentleman in this fair city would gladly step into your shoes at this precise moment in time?"

"They are welcome to it. Last week, a gaggle of females started to chase me down the street. When I reached home, one of them forced her way in and proceeded to propose marriage to me."

I snorted.

"Watson," Holmes said "If you are going to laugh at me, I shall have the cabbie stop, and you can get out and walk."

"Oh, come on, Holmes. You don't want to do that. Your many admirers may be waiting at our door, and you might need me to help you fight through the crowds…"

I got another elbow in the ribs for my trouble, before a wicked smile crossed his face. "Well, actually, old man, a great deal of these women have informed me that it is you who, I quote, 'makes their hearts sing'. Your writings, I have been informed, show that you are a wonderfully kind, romantic person, who needs someone to take care of you."

I blanched. "Oh, dear heaven, Holmes. You do not think they will be waiting for us at Baker Street?"

"Count on it, my friend. Mrs Hudson has even had a couple of the more suitable ones in for tea."

I let out a yelp of fright, and said "Simpson's, Holmes?"

"Absolutely. By the time we get back, most of our admirers should be in bed. What do you think about getting out of the city for a while, Watson?"

"I think that would be a good idea."

Holmes nodded, shouted up at the driver a change of destination, and sighed angrily. "Hounded out of our own home, for heavens sake. I shall be writing a very angry letter to Master Gillette in the morning, Watson. I am a detective, not a love interest!"


	11. Escapologist

**This has been buzzing around my head all day…hope you enjoy it!**

**Usual Disclaimers apply!**

**Escapologist**

"Well. That didn't go particularly well, did it?"

"Thank you, Watson. When I need someone to state the obvious, I will take Lestrade with me."

I grimaced, and struggled against the bonds which bound me both to an iron railing and to Holmes. "Blast…" I cursed, as I hurt my hand on a rusty nail.

I have to say, that it had gone extremely badly from the first. We had entered the lair of a particularly violent criminal to find him and a gang waiting for us. It seems our informant was rather a double agent. We had been restrained, bound, and the criminal had left - vowing to come back later to finish us off. Pretty much as usual, then.

Holmes tried to manoeuvre himself to reach a knife or some such he had secreted (probably in the sole of his boot!), but it was impossible. In the end, he sat back and sighed. He saw the look on my face, and said "Look, this is not my fault."

"Oh, yes it is. No, he says, don't worry, we'll not need the Yard tonight. This will be one of the cases solved by my good self. There is no way Sinclair could know we were coming…"

"We will be fine. We don't need Lestrade."

"What do you propose to do? Wrench the iron railing off the wall? Somehow get down the stairs, and then hop through the streets of London, tied together, until we reach Baker Street?"

"Of course not!"

"Then a suggestion, please!"

Holmes' face lit, and then he launched into a rather complicated plan of escape, which involved me twisting and turning in ways that it is not possible for a human body to twist and turn, and would involve me dislocating my shoulder, elbow and fingers, and most likely, would also involve the surgical removal of various parts of my anatomy to make my upper body more 'stream-lined'. I found myself staring at him in disbelief. He finished, noticed my expression, and said "What?"

"What? Holmes, I know your knowledge of anatomy is not complete, but surely you must see that that 'plan', as it were, is impossible?"

"Why?"

"Holmes, I do not bend that way!"

"Well, I am sure you could try!"

"Holmes, I am a doctor, not a double-jointed, mutated escapologist. Either you try it, or think of something else!"


	12. Schoolmistress

**Hi, sorry if someone else has done 'schoolmistress' for this - I promise that this will be different!**

**Normal disclaimers.**

**Schoolmistress **

There have been many odd sights that have greeted my eyes on entrance to our lounge in Baker Street over the last fifteen years. But none were more so than this. I stood staring at Sherlock Holmes for a moment, before closing the door behind me, and coming, open-mouthed, to stand in the middle of the room, still staring at Holmes.

He looked up and glanced at me for a minute, before saying, "Good evening, my dear Doctor. I take it you have had a hard day? Mrs Prentice being her usual self?"

I felt my eyes widen, "Dare I…?"

"It is quite elementary. You are limping slightly, and the weather being quite inclement, this suggests that you have been on your feet a good portion of the day. You also have the soil of several different London boroughs attached to your feet, from which I suggest that you have been traipsing around the city after your various patients. Am I right?"

"Quite. But what of Mrs Prentice?"

"Whenever you go to treat that woman, you come back not only tired, but with the joint odours of mothballs and cats on your clothing. Mrs Prentice is the only one of your patients that I know of who both has cats and affixes mothballs to anything and everything she can get her hands on. As regards to your current state of exhaustion, the woman is a complete hypochondriac, and you always return from her house completely drained."

"You are, as usual, correct, Holmes."

"Good." He looked up again. I was still staring, transfixed, on what he was doing. "Watson, I take it that my deductions alone are not what are making you stand there like a fish?"

"Holmes…"

"What on earth is it, Watson?"

"I believe that my eyes must be deceiving me…"

"I think that unlikely."

"Because what I see, and you'll forgive me for saying it, is you sitting there knitting a woolly scarf."

"Oh, well done, Watson. I have to say, after fifteen years, I did hope that your lessons in deduction were coming further than deducing that because I am sitting here, needles and wool at the ready, I am knitting a scarf. And anyway," he said, petulantly, "It is not a scarf. It is meant to be a blanket."

"It is a bit narrow…" I started.

Holmes made a rather eloquent noise, and continued with his work.

"Holmes?" I asked.

"Yes… Oh Blast!" he exclaimed, as he dropped a needle.

"Why are you knitting a scarf?"

"It is a blanket!"

"Very well, a blanket…"

My answer came not from Holmes, but from another activity. There was a knock at the door, and Holmes shot up, bunged the knitting under a cushion, threw a ball of wool into the fireplace, took his seat again and then said "Come."

Mrs Hudson came in, looked at Holmes suspiciously, smiled at me, and said "Tea is ready, gentlemen."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," I said, and the lady shot one more look at Holmes, before walking out. I turned to Holmes. "You are knitting that for Mrs Hudson!"

"Not so loud!" Holmes hushed me. "Do you want her to find out?"

"Why?"

"It is Mrs Hudson's birthday in a month or two, and I am somewhat short on capital…"

"But Holmes!" I said, shocked to find that my roommate had been so profligate. "The money from the affair of the red ribbon! And the reward from the Shah of Persia…"

"My brother took the opportunity to suggest an investment. It is doing very well, of course, but I am unable to remove my money for a few months, and forgot to allow myself to budget for a present for our inestimable landlady."

"That is quite endearing, Holmes." I said, smiling, as Holmes retrieved his wool.

Three hours later, trying desperately to work on a new manuscript, I did not think it so endearing. The combined noises of the infernal clacking of needles, and Holmes' frustrated sighs were beginning to grate a little. All of a sudden, an explosion of curses emanated from him, and I looked up. "For heaven's sake, Holmes!"

"Dash it, Watson! Why is this so difficult? How on earth do women do it?" He looked up. "Watson, how do I pick up a stitch that I've dropped?"

"Holmes, I am a Doctor, not a schoolmistress. I probably, thank heaven, know less about knitting than you do…"

"But you were married…"

"Yes, Holmes. But Mary and I did not spend our spare time sitting in front of the fire knitting together."


	13. Typesetter

**This is just a small drabble inspired by my spell-checker breaking. These are some of the mistakes I made whilst typing away!**

**Normal Disclaimers**

**Type-setter**

"Watson?"

I looked up from my book, and said, grumpily, "What?"

"Have you seen the newest edition of the Strand?"

"No." I was surprised "Have you?"

"I do make a point of reading your narratives, Watson."

My hackles rose. It had not been a good day today, and I was felling a little snappish. "What are your criticisms this time?"

"Well, the story is quite satisfactory."

"Praise indeed!"

"But there is one thing…"

"I thought there might be…"

"It is the spelling."

"Dash it all, Holmes! It cannot be that bad. I am a Doctor, not a type-setter."

"You have not read it?"

"No. I have not."

"Well, there is the line which proclaims the name of our client spelt wrongly…"

"His name was Mcyslaivsalv. You cannot blame them for that…"

"Then there is the name of the village. Instead of Frithspawn, they have it down as 'Frogspawn'. I do not think the inhabitants will be very happy to learn that they live in the proud village of Frogspawn-upon-lake."

"I admit, that could be unfortunate…"

"There is one more mistake, Watson, that is rather more serious…"

"Only one?"

"Well, there are more, but this is the most embarrassing."

"What is it?" Holmes handed the paper to me. I read, _We reached the house at Baker Street, and Holmes leapt into action, pulling books off shelves in his haste to find his notes. "Watson!" he cried to me, "Find the keys for this cabinet. I must have access to my flies!"_

"You see?"

"I must have access to my flies?"

We looked at each other, and burst into fits of laughter.


	14. Midwife

**Another slight deviation from the meme - I hope you all like it! Little bit of background…I am doing my dissertation on midwives, so am kind of interested in the subject. To be honest, am missing it now the dissertation has finished…**

**Midwife**

If it had been anyone else but Sherlock Holmes, they would have seen it coming. Alone in his newly acquired rented accommodation at 221B Baker Street, his landlady out with a friend, and his flatmate out for a walk, he had admitted his new client with hardly a glance or a remark to her condition. Of course, he saw it - he was after all, the foremost deductive mind of his generation - but her story and her case interested him to such a degree that for a moment, the lady's condition completely passed him by.

Ernestine Fenners was five-and-twenty, an attractive, pleasant featured woman, with a wedding ring upon her left hand. She had come to bring an affair which concerned her eldest brother, Jonathan, to the newly established detective in his rather more respectable rooms. And she was now eight and a half months pregnant.

For a while, they sat, discussing the case, when Mrs Fenners' hand went to her stomach. Holmes stopped talking, his eyes taking in the movement of her hand, the paleness of her face, the clenching of her jaw. "Mrs Fenners?", the young man asked, concerned.

The lady rose to her feet, but had to sit down again, the strain now evident in her countenance. "I think," she said, slowly, "I am going into labour."

Sherlock Holmes, usually so detached seemed to have nothing to say to this, so made do with a rather quiet and somewhat squeaky, "Oh."

He got to his feet, coming to the lady's side, and tried to get her to her feet, but she let out a cry of pain as he did so, meaning that the young man dropped her onto the seat and scurried backwards, like a scared cat.

For a moment, the woman and the detective stared at each other, the woman in some pain and wondering what on earth she was to do, the detective thinking on not dissimilar lines. He could not just leave the woman alone…not in her state, and it was rather a long way to the nearest doctor's surgery, even at a run. He would have to remain calm. "Er…" Holmes said timidly, "Would you like a cup of tea?"

The woman looked up at him, her face flushed with pain, and said through clenched teeth, "Not really, Mr Holmes." Then, she proceeded to lose control of her quite remarkable composure, and shouted out in pain. Holmes paled even more, if that were possible, and prayed for a miracle.

That miracle came in the shape of his flatmate's return. Holmes and Watson had lived together for nigh on five or so months now, and Holmes had not yet seen Dr Watson at work, and even, in his darkest moments, thought his new flatmate perhaps a little dim-witted. He heard the sound of hurrying (or at least as hurrying as Watson could do with a wounded leg) footsteps coming up the seventeen stairs, then looked up as Watson came through the door.

The doctor scanned the room as he entered, took in the labouring woman and obviously scared detective, then went to the woman's side, hustling Holmes out of the way, and speaking a couple of well-chosen, calming words to the lady, before standing, and motioning to Holmes to go to the other side of the room. "We cannot move her," he said, "This is one of the quickest labours I have ever seen. She is about an hour or so away from giving birth."

"But…But… I'm a detective, not a midwife."

"I know, Holmes," said Watson, his voice calming, "I just need you to get me some things." Then, in a lower whisper, he asked, "By the way, erm…this lady, is she…? I mean, is the child yours…?"

"Mine!" The shocked voice of Sherlock Holmes reverberated around the room, and Watson winced as the lady looked up, a little nervous.

"Well Holmes, a young, pregnant lady in the house… I thought she might be your wife…"

"I'm not married! Don't you think I might have told you something like that?"

"To be fair, you only told me your profession three days ago."

"Well, she isn't! Mine, I mean."

"Alright, Holmes. Now, I need towels, warm water…"

"But…she can't have it here!"

"Well, she is going to have to."

"But…from what I have heard childbirth is a somewhat trying business…"

Watson shot an ironic look at the lady, who was now close to tears, "You wish to go over to the young lady and tell her that childbirth is 'somewhat trying'?"

"I understand there will be screaming…"

"There usually is."

"And crying…"

"That too."

"Someone will think there is some kind of murder going on…that is hardly a good advert for a detective practice. People will be saying that I kill off my clients!"

"Holmes. For heavens sake man, pull yourself together. I cannot move a lady, and there is an end to it. Now, go and get what I need. GO!"

* * *

Two hours later, after much pain, crying and the like from Mrs Ernestine Fenners, and the arrival of Mr Fenners sometime after the delivery, Holmes and Watson sat on the floor of the living room, absolutely spent. Mr and Mrs Fenners as well as baby John had left about ten minutes ago, leaving behind them a trail of utter destruction.

"Well," said Watson, "That was an interesting afternoon. I didn't think my skills as a midwife would be put into practice so soon after my return to London. I have not done that in a while."

"You haven't?" asked Holmes, in surprise, "You looked quite skilled in the exercise."

"There is not much call for it as an army medic," said the doctor, dryly.

Both exchanged glances, then laughed, before Holmes said, "We shall have to get this carpet cleaned."

"Mrs Hudson _will_ be pleased. And only a week after you spilled sulphuric acid over it as well."

"I tripped over one of your piles of books."

"They were only there because you commandeered all of my shelves for an 'experiment' with all that copper tubing."

Quickly, the detective changed the subject, "That experience has assured me that I will never marry."

"Oh, what a loss to women everywhere," muttered the doctor.

Holmes ignored him, "That was truly a most unnerving experience."

"Well, what did you think it would be like?"

"I did not think it would be so… disturbing…"

"But did you see the result?"

"I heard it. Screaming it's lungs out."

"Do you not think it was miraculous though? A real, living thing… I thought it quite beautiful."

Holmes looked at Watson, "I shall never understand doctors," but his eyes held new-found respect for the man sitting next to him. And he never found himself calling his flatmate dim-witted again. In fact, if anyone were to make such a comment, he would find himself on the receiving end of a right hook from Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
